


That Would be the Fever Talking

by jdjunkie



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-14
Updated: 2010-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjunkie/pseuds/jdjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's mind rambles feverishly when he's injured offworld</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Would be the Fever Talking

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle IX to the prompt "fever"

He isn’t certain, but he thinks the laughing he can hear is coming from him. It’s hard to tell. A minute ago, he was sure one of those huge caterpillar-like, hairy, crawly things they all hallucinated last year was crawling up the wall. And then he wasn’t laughing at all. He thinks he was screaming. So he can’t be certain he’s laughing -- something about a Jaffa and someone’s nose dripping -- although all the evidence points that way.

He can’t be certain of anything.

He shivers, which is odd in itself because he’s not cold. Then he sees one of those bird-like creatures that’s a ... “Fenri,” he croaks, ducking away from it as it swoops down. A strong pair of arms circle more tightly around him.

_Heh. Pull me in tight and hold on ‘cause I think I’m losing it, or I’ve already lost it and one of us needs to be in charge. Whoever you are ..._

“It’s okay, Jack. There’s no fenri. There are no giant slugs, no hands slicing into your brain. Just me.”

He knows the voice. Can’t quite place it. Doesn’t matter. He seems to know what he’s doing. Good job someone does. He sure as fuck doesn’t. And look, there’s a fucking .... what’s it called ... symbiote. Crawling across the ceiling. Slimy, evil, clever little bastard. What if it ... “Don’t ... don’t let the fucker drop. It’ll get inside. Rather die. Think I did. Lots. I died lots.”

“No one’s dying. Not today. Not if I can help it. Not even me.”

That’s good. Reassuring.

There’s an irritating click and he’s jostled ...“Sam? Teal’c? Come in. Shit. ... Sam? Teal’c? Do you read? I don’t know if you’re getting this but we’re in trouble. Jack collapsed . Can’t move his legs. He has a fever and he’s vomiting. I’ve given oral antibiotics. Don’t know if they’re helping. Trying to get his temperature down. We need a med team. You’re much closer to the gate than we are and I can’t leave him. Tell Janet ... the sooner the better. Okay?” There’s another click that’s close to his ear and he’s hauled in tighter. Then a whispered, “Very soon. Soon as you like.”

He’s being held. Feels nice. He likes being held. He’d die under torture before admitting it. He’s never told anyone. Not Sara ... blonde hair, ex-wife, great ass, better tits, oops, not PC, Daniel wouldn’t approve. Daniel. It’s _Daniel._ Great ass, stupendous ass. He’s in Daniel’s arms. Touchdown ... home run ... winning goal in the Olympic ice hockey final against the USSR.

He recognises those hands. The ones that are trying to rub some warmth into him, and why the fuck are they doing that when he’s not cold? They cradle him gently sometimes, after they fuck. He likes that. He likes being held. He also likes it when Daniel’s arm muscles tighten like whipcords and strong hands pin him to the bed. Daniel likes it, too. He smiles in a snarly way and fucks him hard. He says things. They’re kind of dirty. _“Take it. Fucking take it all. Hard. I’m so hard inside you.”_

Or maybe that’s never happened. Difficult to tell what’s real when your mind can’t grab hold of anything and sweat is streaming into your eyes making them sting. Probably looks like ...

“I _know_ you’re not crying.” And there’s a desperate kind of laughter in the voice. He must have said something out loud. “You never cry. I wish you fucking would. Sometimes. The military facade was shown up for what it was long ago, Jack. I know you. I love you, you contrary bastard. And don’t you dare fucking die on me. We’ve come too far and it’s nowhere far enough.” Gentle hands swipe at his face. “I didn’t come back to lose you now.”

He loves those hands. They’re expert jerking off hands. Forehead to forehead, bringing each other off, and he tries to concentrate on the silk and steel of Daniel’s cock but Daniel’s hands are too fucking good at this ... strong, teasing fingers pulling and tugging and whipping at just the right speed and in just the right place ... _unh, unh, unh, christ yes, theretherethere, please, god, coming, coming, coming so fucking hard ..._

Wait a second. Die? He has no plans to die. Dying’s for losers, and sometimes Daniel. Daniel’s not a loser. He won big when he snagged Jack. Jack O’Neill ... never knowingly undersells himself. Could be that Jack’s the loser now though. He’s convulsed by tremors. Feels like he’s falling apart. Only on the outside, though. Inside, he’s held together by Daniel. Always has been. He’s not going to die. He turns his face into the comfort of Daniel’s jacket. He smells ... like Daniel, although there’s more than the scent of home and familiarity and love. There’s something else. Fear. He’d know it anywhere. Daniel’s frightened.

He reaches for clarity, tries to get a hold of the here and now. It’s there. He just has to latch on and squeeze tight.

“Ow! Shit, Jack. Not so tight. Might need that hand some day.”

Oops.

“S’okay. You got another one.” Hah! That’s funny. He’s laughing at his own joke. Yeah. Definitely laughing this time. So’s Daniel.

“That’s funny Jack. Laugh it up. When we get out of here I am so gonna kick your ass. We’re gonna miss our anniversary date tonight, you unromantic bastard. I reserved the table weeks ago. Table for two at Santoro’s; expensive wine, excellent food, great sex. I’m gonna kick your ass and then if you’re really lucky I’ll kiss it better.”

Mmmm. Ass-kissing, not the kind that whatsisname does, Kinsey. Kissing of the ass, butt, cheeks. Well, spank me rosey. Kissing and licking and sucking and biting. _“Tongue. Please. Put your tongue in ... yeah, ungh, more, faster, in and out, yeah, fuh- ...”_

“Had it all planned. Cab ordered. Night at that hotel where we stayed over the time we got too drunk to drive home. Remember?”

Remember, remember ... wrecked the bed when Daniel wrenched out the struts of the wooden headboard as he came.

And we’re rocking. He’s being rocked, back and forth, just a little. Not enough to make him hurl again. He hasn’t hurled for, oh maybe ten minutes now. That’s a good sign, right? He likes being rocked. Likes being rocked into, too. Good strong, hard thrusts, complete with slapping noises and guttural expletives from above. Not above as in, god, above. God wouldn’t approve. _“You’ll burn in hell, Jack O’Neill. There’s a special place for boys like you ...”,_ Sorry, Mr. Delaney but your son really enjoys having his dick sucked.

Hey! What do you know? Delaney was right. There was a place for him in hell. Netu. Whatever. Shit hole. Blood of ... something or other ... Charlie and baseball ... your gun, your gun ... and Daniel getting punched in the gut but saving the day. Go Daniel, brave, stubborn Daniel. Who’s frightened.

“Don’t be scared. Okay? I’m fine.”

Crap. Another vomiting episode says otherwise. In sickness and in health ...

And with the speed and brightness of an Asgard beam, he has a moment of clarity. Like bursting through the trees of a dense forest to gaze on the open vastness of the plains. “Daniel. Listen. Cut my hand when I broke twigs for the fire. Splinters maybe.”

Then his hand is being twisted and brought up to Daniel’s mouth and he’s being laid on the ground. And Daniel’s examining and fumbling for his knife, then there’s a sharp cut “Ow!” and his palm is being sucked. Mmm. Nice. Daniel’s good at sucking ... sucking, sucking, rimming, fucking. Poetry in pain.

“Okay, okay. Let’s clean that hand. I think I got it all out. I’ll wipe it with antiseptic, then wrap it. Okay? Feeling better yet?”

Better. So much better. Not yet. Soon though.

A burst of static. “—niel? Heard ...Janet says ... on our way.” Then a click and another burst of static. He recognizes that sound. It’s what he hears in his head when Carter technobabbles. He heard it for a full year when Daniel was gone. Vast swathes of loud, angry, meaningless emptiness in his head. Empty space that should have been full of Daniel.

“Santoro’s. I’ll pay,” he croaks, replaying bits of their conversation in an effort to make something make sense.

“You’ve paid. We all pay. Every fucking day in all the wrong ways. Sorry. Sorry. I get metaphorical when faced with an unpalatable truth. Or when I get frightened out of my fucking mind. My language deteriorates, too. You may have noticed.”

A pillow is placed under his head. Smells like Daniel’s jacket. Smells like Daniel.

“Think you can drink some water?” His head is lifted gently and he takes a few sips. Better than the coldest beer or the smoothest whiskey.

Click ... “Sam. I read you. Kind of. Can you give me an ETA?”

Tired now. Really, really tired.

“Can I sleep?” he asks.

“Metaphorically? No. Practically? Go ahead, baby. Help’s on its way. I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

Not going anywhere. That’s good. Went away before. Life got shit. Shit today, but different shit.

He feels a heavy hand on his head. It strokes and comforts. Hears a long, stuttering breath exhaled as Daniel sinks down on his butt onto the floor beside him.

Keeping watch.

Keeping the faith.

Santoro’s and wine and food and loving. Nice. Must get an anniversary present.

Sleep now.


End file.
